‘We are going to send her away,’ pursued Mr. Dixon. ‘She has asked to go down to my sister in Devonshire, a widow, who has often wanted to have a visit from her. She says, if she gets away from all this (‘all what?’ thought Roger, a thick dread at his heart—‘her home, her friends, her natural life, with all its hopes and interests?’), once away, she thinks she’ll be better. So we shall send her. I won’t stay. I’ve dragged myself here, and I shall drag myself back again. Can you shake hands with me, my lad?’ Roger unhesitatingly gave him his hand, went with him to the door, and saw him walk away; then returned, to try and understand the meaning of what had befallen him. He was surprised to find that after a time, instead of reproaching Ada, even in thought, he was occupied in trying to recall any occasions on which he might have spoken harshly to her, and in mentally imploring her to forgive him his trespasses, and in wishing that he had but the chance to do it in so many words; while his sense of the mysterious terror that hung over her grew greater every moment. He did not leave Bradstane earlier than he had intended. A great calm and a great pity had settled upon his soul. He found himself able to speak freely to Michael of what had happened—to tell him more of his inner thoughts and feelings than, in all their long intimacy, he had ever divulged before. He told Michael what Ada was going to do, and he said— ‘When she comes back, for my sake, Michael, you will pay a little heed to her, and let me know how she looks, at any rate.’ ‘You may trust me to do it.’ ‘It is all quite over between us. I have a feeling that that is quite certain; but I don’t feel as if we knew everything yet. And God forbid that I should judge her in the dark. A girl doesn’t carry on as she is doing, either from lightness of mind or hardness of heart.’ This was as Michael drove him along the lanes to Darlington to catch the night train. Michael said nothing. Friendship demanded that what Roger required of him in this matter, he should do, whatever he might think of the cause of his friend’s distress. CHAPTER XXXIV HOW CRACKPOT WAS SCRATCHED They left the dogcart outside the station, and Michael went in with Roger to see him off. As he stood beside the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, Roger, leaning out, said to him in a low voice— ‘I haven’t forgotten what you said to me, Michael, though it looks as if I had—what you said in your letter about a certain lady.’ ‘I did not suppose you had forgotten,’ replied Michael, gravely and simply; ‘but I think you had better do so. Consider that I wrote it in a fit of momentary weakness of mind. Indeed, if I could have borne to write the last part of the letter over again, I would not have sent the first, when it came to the point.’